


Tell Me a Story, Tell Me a Lie

by Lucy_Ferrier



Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dont copy to another site, Episode 8, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23690959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy_Ferrier/pseuds/Lucy_Ferrier
Summary: How do you tell a lie?How do you say it, look the one you love most dead in the eye, hold it steady, and watch as they fall apart?
Relationships: Toby Hamilton/Adil Joshi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

How do you tell a lie?

How do you say it, look the one you love most dead in the eye, hold it steady, and watch as they fall apart?

Just sit there

And

Watch

The words land like blows; _disgusted_ and _how dare you_ and _disappear, disappear, disappear, there is no place for you here._ Just sit there and watch, his heart at your feet, his blood cooling on the floor. You did this. You did this.

How do you tell a lie?

Well, it’s not so hard, even for you, you who has never been good at it, whose voice cracked and trembled, whose hands shook with terror like you’d never known it, the day you got caught, the day you thought you’d fixed things with Lucien. The day you thought you’d go to jail, and the day you thought you were free.

All you have to do is this;

Hold your voice steady. Don’t let it shake, don’t let the pitch change, the octave rise. Don’t let your hands fiddle nor tremble, don’t give it away, it would be so easy, he knows you too well. You have to be careful; this lie, this lie could fall apart in an instant.

Look him dead in the eye, hold it steady, that gun to his head. It’s not his fault he doesn’t know it’s not loaded. Hold onto your emotion, the anger, the fury, remember, remember how it felt, that evening you found out. Hold onto the anger, or he’ll see the fear. He’ll see the gun to your head, and this one.

This one is loaded.

This lie tastes like anger, it tastes like devastation. It tastes like a month of theft and other smaller and bigger lies, like hurt and heartbreak. You just want it to be over, the stealing, the pain, the hiding, this burden.

This lie tastes like a hundred bigger and smaller lies that you’ve told this month for Lucien, but this one tastes like blood, from where you’ve chewed through your cheek. You tell yourself one last lie to keep you steady; you don’t care where he goes, what happens to him. It’s over, this thing that you had. It has been for a month, it’s easy to pretend, you’ve been pretending your whole life, lying to yourself your whole life (who knew you were actually a good liar? Certainly not _you_ ). Keep your face blank, Adil knows every tell you have.

But you didn’t count on;

How much he hates himself.

But you didn’t count on;

The fact you were compensating for his hope, that hope you’d seen every time he ambushed you in the hallway, begging to help you, begging to fix things. In your mind, you’re pleading and bleeding _believe it, believe me, run away and don’t look back. Forget me, let me move on, I can’t bear it, seeing you anymore. Run away and don’t look back, I need to know you’re safe._

But you didn’t count on;

You’ve never been good at lying. You’ve never needed to before him, never liked the way it tasted rolling off your tongue. But this time, you’ve had practice, you’ve been lying for months, small lies and half-truths _sorry it’s work_ and people have been believing you, but you haven’t thought about the way you’ve treated him, how you’ve sneered and snarled and glared, you just wanted to know that he was hurting too. You haven’t thought about how good at it you’ve gotten; you haven’t thought about what happens when you lie. You don’t know the consequences. You don’t know how it hurts.

But you didn’t count on;

How much you’d break him.

But you didn’t count on;

The fact he’s lying too.

…

How do you tell a lie?

How do you do it, look the one you love most dead in the eye, and watch as you fall apart? Just stand there, looking at him, watching him sit, tension so set in his shoulders they almost shake. You tell him you love him, one last-ditch effort, and he rips you apart.

He shouts, and you weren’t really expecting it, but you don’t flinch. Toby is quiet snarls and harsh whispers when he’s angry, his fury speeds up his words, his devastation closing up his throat. This is measured. This is steady. This is cold, and this is _loud._ You hold it together, you can hold it together, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, that he took your heart and ripped it apart in front of you and didn’t even have the decency to give it back. It doesn’t matter, you have no intention of letting anyone have it again.

So how do _you_ lie?

You stand there, face blank, hands steady. Your voice cracks, but that’s okay, given the circumstances, it almost adds to the story. Look at you, standing there, tears in your eyes but steady, hands behind your back. You could almost be standing in the bar right now.

The best lies are mixed with truth, and unlike Toby, you are good at this. You hate it, you know how much a lie can hurt, but you’ve never told those sorts of lies. Your lies are always _it’s okay_ and _I’ll fix this_ because that’s what you do. Every lie before Mr D’abbervile was a reassurance, and at the time wasn’t necessarily a lie. So, you say it again, with practised ease, he won’t let you fix things, not the way you want to. You never could have called the police, you know this, the second D’abbervile was arrested, your family would be dragged into it too, you can’t afford to hurt them, to get them involved. Because no matter the crime, they’d all get deported, your actions marking them all as a threat.

So, you tell him this; _as you wish,_ the words themselves not where the lie lays, the lie is in your actions. Your hands only shake a little when you remove the bowtie, and you almost can’t bear to look at him, but you have to. One last time. You’ll never see him again.

The plan. Your plan. The plan to-

This plan is old and worn, you’d shoved it away, down, down, down, where you hoped you’d never see it again, because it _scared_ you, the fact that a part of you wanted this. This is where the lie is, carefully guarded next to every other secret you have, that only peaks out when your guard is down, when you’re at your most desperate; _You are who you are, and I am… what I am._ You didn’t particularly like who you were before, but you _hate_ who you are now. You hate the desperation, the fear, you hate his hurt and his anger, and you hate that you deserve it. You hate how easily you were controlled, how you lost everything because of it, but now you’ve lost him, _really_ lost him. There wasn’t much hope left in you when you walked into Toby’s room, that space where you felt seen and loved and _happy,_ but anything you have left in you, you leave on the floor where your heart is still bleeding out, all over his feet.

You are going to die. Of this, you have already decided.

Could you live without him? Of course, of course, you could, it’s the baggage that is hard, the baggage from everything that’s happened, that you can’t carry. The only person you could talk to about this, and he looked you dead in the eye and told you, you disgusted him, and you believe him. Toby’s a rubbish liar.

You can’t save him; he won’t let you. You can’t save your family; you don’t know how. But you can do this for them. You can do this for you. You have nothing to live for besides them, and your being here will hurt them, is hurting them. You keep rationalising as you write, your face is almost dry when you hand the note to Tom. He asks if you’re okay, and you manage a smile.

You always were a good liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in about half an hour as soon as I woke up this morning. I don't know why


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look, it's that second chapter no one asked for. this is entirely optional to read tbh, I wasn't even sure I was going to post it.
> 
> trigger warning for Adil's suicide attempt

How do you catch a lie?

Adil hands you a note and tells you to give it to Mr Hamilton when you see him, only he calls him Toby. This is your first clue, and it flies straight over your head.

His eyes are red raw, but his face is flat and empty. You ask if he’s okay. He smiles.

It’s small, and it’s brittle, but it’s the sort of reassuring smile you’ve seen him give the most brooding and sulky patrons at the bar, a smile you’ve seen a hundred times before. He tells you something came up; he asks you to send his apologies to Mr Garland if he asks. He tells you he won’t be able to work tonight. This is you second clue, and you catch it for a moment – Adil is always working, he never takes time off except the days he’s assigned – but you shrug, and you fumble it. Adil has never lied to you.

You watch him leave for a moment; thoughts of the party pushed slightly to the side. He walks slowly, head down, trying to be invisible. He walks like he’s headed to the gallows, and for a second, you’re tempted to look at his note. Then all the chaos comes crashing back, the shouted orders and busy bustling staff. You throw a lazy grin at one of the barmen.

“Sorry mate.” You say. “Looks like you two are on your own tonight.”

There is so much to do, crates to move, tables to arrange, plates and plates of food and drinks to carry out to the bar, and it doesn’t take long for you to forget about Adil, forget about the note, and forget about the strangeness of it all.

Seeing Toby Hamilton is a surprise.

It shouldn’t be, and you don’t let it show on your face. You’ve been trained better than that. He asks about police, hands flying every which way, eyes glancing manically down the halls. He’s nervous. He’s almost scared, but mostly he looks tired. You wonder what the hell Mr Hamilton wants with the police. This is your third clue tonight, and you don’t know what to do with it.

You can’t see the lie. But you know there’s a story. The two can be almost the same most of the time.

You remember the note. You hand it to him with a pleasant smile, the same one you always give him, nice rather than kind and just a little vague. You figure that’s all, and you turn to continue working but he reaches back out to you. Naked panic on his face and he asks how old the note is. You don’t understand why he’s suddenly so scared, you’ve never seen him run _anywhere_ before, and certainly never so fast. This is your last clue tonight, and you have to fight your nervousness away so it doesn’t distract you from work. You don’t know what happened between Adil and Mr Hamilton, just that something did. You bite your lip and keep working.

It’s none of your business anyway.

…

The whisky is cheap and it burns when you swallow.

You would have done anything for him. You would have destroyed yourself, thrown yourself under any and every bus, if it meant you could keep him safe. After everything he said this evening, you don’t understand why he won’t let you.

You never told Toby, about this thing in your head. The one that whispers cruel things to you, the one that makes you want to hurt yourself. Yes, you would recklessly have thrown your own life away for Toby Hamilton, you never would have hesitated. If it weren’t for the threat to your family, you would have thrown it away in a heartbeat the second Mr D’abbervile threatened you. You are nothing compared to them.

You wonder what Toby would have done if he’d known you were broken.

Optimism and depression are a strange combination, but you’ve been fighting this _thing_ for so long. But before it was whispers, quiet in the dark after hard days and one too many insults and slurs, easy enough to ignore and easy enough to fight. One too many comments from patrons of the bar, and you didn’t believe them, you never believed them, and each time left you angry and wounded, but slowly, slowly, you stopped fighting back, traded angry comments for tight smiles because it’s easier. They don’t care what you say, get angry when you defend yourself. But now it’s screaming at you, this thing, fuelled by everything you did, everything Mr D’abbervile did and said, everything Toby said, and you are exhausted. You don’t want to fight it anymore.

You turn on the gas and lie down on the bed. There are tear tracks on your face, but that’s okay. You tell yourself the lie, and you believe it. It’s okay, it’s okay.

It will all be over soon.

…

What do you do when no one catches your lie?

You did this, with your words, with your actions. How could you. How could you, how did you let this happen.

You meant to hurt him. That was the point. And you knew, you knew exactly where to hit him, how to rip him apart, how to make it hurt the most. But-

But you didn’t mean to kill him.

His heart at your feet, but his blood’s on your hands. You did this.

You did this.

You were hurt, and you were angry, and you hurt him. Just because you could.

You’re gasping when you make it to the stairs – Freddie always said you ran like an asthmatic. You’re screaming at his door but he doesn’t answer. It’s locked but it doesn’t matter. The lock breaks easily under the weight of your body, and you stumble in under your own momentum and the gas hits you like a punch in the gut. Your sinuses ache with it, but you don’t have time to think about that. Tom said _hours._ You feel ill with the connotations.

Adil isn’t breathing, and you don’t know how to find a pulse. It’s harder than you think, digging fingers into wrists, under the jaw, you don’t even know it’s possible to look for one at the inner elbow, behind the knee, the bottom of the foot, for all the good it would have done. Adil’s pulse is weak and it flutters abnormally, but you don’t know that. You can’t find it.

You don’t know how to make him start breathing. CPR won’t exist for nearly another 15 years, not that you’d know it. You pat his face, consider smacking him harder, anything for a response. _Please, please, please, I love you, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I love you._ You beg him. He can’t hear you.

Look what you’ve done.

Look what you’ve done.

…

How do you tell what’s a lie and what’s the truth?

How can you even begin to unpack, what’s lead you here, to the point where you can’t tell what’s real and what’s not, can’t read him well enough to catch him in a lie.

Your head hurts, and you think you might vomit. You don’t know why you’re still here.

Toby is above you, panic written all over his face, but there, behind it all, the barest hint of relief.

 _Oh god,_ he says. _I thought I lost you._

You don’t understand. Toby hates you.

You reach out on instinct, you burst into tears when he clings back, wrapping himself around you and holding you tight. Holding you together, he’s sobbing too, and although it takes you a moment to realise, he’s speaking.

 _I love you; I love you; I love you, I’m sorry,_ he sobs it like a mantra, and you don’t understand.

One day you will laugh, because you so easily swallowed his lie, but you can’t comprehend his honesty, even after everything. You spent two months telling yourself _I can fix this, I can still make it okay_ but you couldn’t and you can’t, and you don’t know yet if you’re grateful that he saved you.

Your chest hurts and your throat makes terrible wheezing noises that stutter into coughing fit after coughing fit, as your lungs try and drag in as much air as they can. Your body suddenly realises you’ve poisoned it, and you have to shove roughly at Toby as you pull yourself up enough to be sick all over the stairs.

You’re left trembling and he reaches for you and you flinch. You don’t understand, and you don’t know how to trust him. You love him, you do, so much it’s killing you, and he said it back, _he said it back,_ and you don’t believe him.

You can’t tell the difference. When he lies and when he’s honest. It’s equally desperate and devastated.

Your mind begs him to leave, your tongue whispers _don’t go._

You know if he leaves now, this will be the last time, _really_ the last time. He’ll walk out that door and he won’t look back; you tell yourself you won’t watch him go.

He sits beside you; your heart on his sleeve. Your blood pouring through his fingers. He holds it out to you, offers it back, _I didn’t mean it, I love you, I’m sorry._ His chest lies empty, ribs cracked and raw, and you look at your hands. You never knew it, but you’ve held it since September.

His heart in your hands. You trace the scars, the fresh ones from you, deep and bloody, the old ones from his father, the tiny nicks from every fight from his brother. You didn’t know you could hurt him like that. You offer it back; he shakes his head.

 _Keep it safe,_ he whispers. _It’s yours,_ he whispers.

You stare for a moment, try to shove it back at him; but he won’t let you. You could scream in frustration. You beg him to take it. You don’t deserve this.

But, you tuck it away, in that space in your chest. You don’t deserve to, but you can do this for him. You can’t make it right, but you can do this for him, for as long as he needs, until he asks for it back. You tell yourself; you’ll be ready when he asks. You are lying.

He cries as he watches you, watches the rise and fall of your chest, still not steady, and you are too. He attempts a smile, but you’re not there yet, everything is still too much and too raw. Your heart, in his hands, from where he picked it up off the floor of his room, his hands are bloody with everything he said, but so are yours. He cradles it gently now, tips it carefully into your hands. _I love you,_ _I’m sorry,_ he whispers, and it sounds like forgiveness.

You hold your heart in your hands. You trace the wounds, still bleeding, still raw. You trace the scars, everything you endured carved crudely into muscle. _Never again,_ you promised, _no one else will hold it ever again,_ you’d told yourself.

You reach out to him, fingers searching for that space in his chest, and he's too shocked to stop you. You tuck your heart away safely, look him in the eye as they widen. Awe, and just a touch of terror. You’re crying again, but you don’t notice yet. Your hands folded over his chest, leaning forward, in his space. A little bit of recklessness and a more than a little stubborn, you rest your forehead against his and you tell him you love him, one last-ditch effort;

 _Toby,_ you whisper, _It has always, always been yours._


End file.
